


Don't Try So Hard

by Morpheus626



Series: My Melancholy Blues [3]
Category: Queen (Band)
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28355772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morpheus626/pseuds/Morpheus626
Summary: John/Reader (gender neutral.) Your depression is keeping you from writing, and it’s the most frustrating fucking thing. But John isn’t one to leave you lingering in that sort of a funk, and he’s got a way to get the words flowing again.As with the first two of these fics, a TW for depression, as well as negativity directed towards the self and one’s creative abilities in this one.
Relationships: John Deacon/Reader
Series: My Melancholy Blues [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2076555
Kudos: 2





	Don't Try So Hard

“I don’t mean to intrude,” John leans into the bedroom. “But you did say you were going to write something, and then you wanted me to read it within the hour.”

You nod, and tap your pen against the pad of paper on the bed.

“It’s been three hours, and you’ve not brought me anything,” he continues. “Are you okay?”

“Maybe I’ll just never write again,” you mutter, and toss the pen into the corner of the room.

He walks in and retrieves it, setting it on the bedside table before climbing onto the bed beside you. “And why is that?”

You gesture at the empty page. “Look at this! What sort of writer can’t fight past whatever their brain is doing to keep writing?”

“A human one,” John remarks as he looks at the paper. “You’ve been in a funk the last few days, that doesn’t mean-”

“I’m the worst writer on the planet,” you fuss, and flop back onto the pillows. “And possibly several others, but that can’t be established for sure until we know there’s life on them.”

“You’re wallowing,” he says in a warning tone, but he flops back beside you, and wraps an arm around your hip. “You know that doesn’t do you any good.”

You wiggle closer to him and drop your head to his shoulder. “I know. But I can’t help it. I’ve been trying to drag myself out of this, trying to get something on the page, anything, and-”

You sigh and groan in frustration. “Nothing! Less than nothing, because I could have at least had a decent idea, you know? But no, not even ideas, just...a whole lot of fucking nothing.”

“Write something for me,” John says, in a tone that suggests it’s the simplest thing in the world, that he’s shocked you didn’t think of it sooner.

“Well, I was going to have you read whatever it was regardless,” you say.

“I know,” he says patiently. “But it wasn’t for me specifically, was it? I mean, write something just for me. Something you might only want to show to me.”

“Okay,” you lift your head and meet his gaze. “But how does that help? I still want to do it, don’t get me wrong, but...”

“It helps because you’ll get past whatever gate your depression is putting up to keep you from writing,” John replies, with a gentle jab to your forehead with a finger. “And because it’s just for me, for us, you don’t have to worry about meeting the ridiculously high standards you keep in that head of yours. Just get it written, because I want to read it.”

“Like a poem, or a story, or...”

“Anything,” he says. “I’ll even stay right here, for inspiration.”

“Plus you’re comfortable?”

“That too,” he yawns and settles into the pillows as you sit back up and snag the pen from the bedside table.

For awhile, you sit, and stare at the walls. There’s nothing coming, less than nothing, somehow.

Until you turn and look at John, who’s fallen asleep.

He’s gorgeous. He always is, to you, but when he sleeps, there’s an odd…

It’s hard to put words to, almost. Elegance is the closest you can get to sum up the emotions you feel, watching him lay there peacefully. His lashes are long and the lines of his jaw and nose and brow fit and angle together in a way that reminds you of ancient sculptures, beautiful in the museum displays John so often takes you to.

Finally, some words start to tumble out, and you hope the scritch of the pen won’t wake him.

Even once it’s done, you hesitate to wake him. He’s breathing deeply, obviously as comfortable as he can get.

But he wanted to read it, and truthfully, you’re proud of this one.

You kiss him softly and lay down to rest on his chest, the pages of the finished poem in your hand as you rest it across him.

It’s another moment before his eyes flutter open, and he yawns. “Sorry. Didn’t actually mean to sleep that hard.”

“No matter,” you say, and hand him the pages. “You were inspiring regardless.”

He rubs at an eye before he starts to read, and it turns to giggles, then to barely visible tears in his eyes.

“You wrote this about someone else,” he jokes, but sniffles. “You must have.”

“I did not,” you say, and kiss him. “All you. Thank you for getting me past the roadblock in my head.”

He nods, and kisses you back. “Now what are you going to write about?”

“You, again,” you smile. “Inspiration isn’t all gone on that yet.”

“And all I need to do is stay here?”

“Sleep, read, do what you like, but yeah. I think as long as you hang out here with me, I’ll be able to keep going.”

His hand rests on your back as you sit up and grab the paper and pen again, and just like that, you’ve got another topic ready to go.


End file.
